


Perfection

by TheSaddleman



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Flashbacks, Foreshadowing, Humour, Hybrid - Freeform, Ice Cream Sundaes, Music, Romance, Spoilers for Episode: s08e08 Mummy on the Orient Express, Spoilers for Episode: s09e12 Hell Bent, Tiny bit of Angst, charity fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 16:26:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17870693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSaddleman/pseuds/TheSaddleman
Summary: Clara has challenged the Doctor to deliver her to the universe's best ice cream sundae. The cost of this adventure? One dance in a very familiar location.





	Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> The following story was originally published in the late summer of 2018 in The Hybrid: A Twelfth Doctor and Clara Oswald Charity Zine, a publication edited by Whouffaldi fan artist extraordinaire Ginger Hoesly (a.k.a. Random Thunk), with proceeds going to One to One Children's Fund, a charity for which Jenna Coleman serves as ambassador. 
> 
> One to One aids children in need in locations ranging from eastern Europe to Africa, focusing on health-care and educational needs. Children helped by One to One face challenges ranging from HIV to physical disabilities. 
> 
> The Hybrid zine quickly sold out, and Ginger requested that those who donated stories (and fan art) delay posting their works for a period of time. Earlier this week, she gave her blessing to those of us who wish to circulate our works beyond the zine. I debated whether or not to post this story, but decided I would do so, but with this introduction explaining the context of the work and also telling a little bit about One to One. 
> 
> If you wish to make a donation to One to One Children's Fund - or give it a signal boost - more information can be found on [their website](https://www.onetoonechildrensfund.org).
> 
> As for this story, it is set sometime during Series 9. Many thanks to [Universe on Her Shoulders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders/works) for giving this a great beta-read prior to my submitting it to the zine. And my thanks once again to Ginger for putting the book together.

“ _Mmmm_ … Oh, Doctor, this is soooo good!”

The Doctor blushed deeply — so much so, it threatened to reflect onto the fringe of his silver hair. “Clara, keep your voice down a wee bit, would you? People might get the wrong idea.”

“Don’t care. This is the best sundae I’ve ever had!”

As his companion continued to dig into the heavenly mixture of ice cream, chocolate syrup, strawberries and assorted other ingredients, the Doctor couldn’t help but smile at the irony. Of how a man with all of time and space at his command could answer Clara Oswald’s playful challenge to deliver her to the universe’s best chocolate-strawberry sundae by taking her to a place located a short walk from the school where she taught. 

The Doctor hadn’t even needed the TARDIS for this trip, really, but he’d wanted to surprise Clara, so he said he was transporting her to a far-off planet a hundred thousand years into the future where rivers of chocolate flowed from mountains made of ice cream. True, he did have the co-ordinates for just such a world on file, but he always felt the place was overrated. So, their final destination was instead a retro-1950s American-style diner in Shoreditch. The waitresses wore roller skates, and there even was a burly looking guy in the kitchen flipping hamburgers. Clara was convinced the man sported a ship’s anchor tattoo on his left bicep, but her sundae had arrived before she could investigate further and all other concerns faded into nothingness as her eyes fixed on what she could only call a work of art.

“How did you know about this place, anyway?” Clara asked as she put her spoon down and the wave of ecstasy subsided. She found herself catching the eye of the teenager behind the till and hoped the girl wasn’t a Coal Hill student; Clara really _had_ been a bit exuberant on that last bite of syrup-drenched strawberry, and she didn’t need Mr. Armitage hearing about it. “You don’t strike me as the vanilla-milkshake type.” She nodded at the half-finished drink in the Doctor’s hand.

“Susan discovered it back when we lived here for a while,” the Doctor replied. “The place looks exactly the same as it did back in 1963, too. Which is sort of strange...” He looked around with sudden suspicion, looking for tell-tale signs of nefariousness — evidence of a time rift, or the staff wearing shimmer suits, maybe. Statistically, a good percentage of the occupants were likely cloaked Zygons, too. But all he could see were customers of assorted ages in conditions that seemed to fall under one of two categories: “sugar rush” or “chocolate coma.” Oh, and there was also a cat meowing up a storm just outside the front door, which was annoying, but not sinister.

“Don’t get paranoid, Doctor. There aren’t any baddies here. This was a perfect place for our date.” Clara spotted a rogue piece of strawberry in the bottom of her tall, wide-brimmed sundae glass, and expertly impaled it with the handle of her spoon like a spear-fisher. 

The Doctor bristled. “This is _not_ a da…” He aborted the sentence under an eyebrow raise from Clara that perfectly punctuated that last bit of strawberry disappearing between her pursed lips. He sighed. “Call it what you want.”

Clara gave the Doctor a beaming smile. “You’re learning,” she said.

The Doctor shook his head with a grin and took a slurp of his milkshake — but then frowned as he saw Clara’s mood turn sombre as she stared down into her own glass.

“Clara, what’s wrong? Is there a message at the bottom saying, ‘You have been poisoned?’ That actually happened to a friend of mine once.”

“No more sundae. Look.” She showed him her empty glass, lonely spoon sitting forlorn within. Clara looked like she needed a hug. 

“I’ll order you another,” the Doctor sighed as he started to get up, but Clara stopped him with gentle pressure on his forearm.

“No, Doctor. What would be the point? This sundae was just so perfect; I don’t want to ruin its memory by having another. What if the next one isn’t quite as good as the first? Then I’ll only remember the _not-quite-as-good_ sundae and not the _perfect_ sundae. No, Doctor, I’m spoiled for life. You have shown me what perfection truly is.”

The Doctor and Clara locked eyes.

“In other words,” he said, “if you ordered another one, yet _another_ would follow and you’d find yourself in a chocolate coma, just like that elderly gentleman in the corner booth over there.” The Doctor nodded in the man’s direction, and then furrowed his brow as his eyes focused on the human. “Though it’s quite possible that he’s actually dead.” 

Clara laughed. “I’m just full, Doctor. And I loved this. Thank you.” She turned and looked towards the booth that had caught his attention. She frowned. “He’s not actually dead… is he?” 

Fortunately, the old man sprang back to life as a waitress roller-skated up to his table and placed a huge strawberry syrup-covered banana split in front of him. 

“You’re never too old,” Clara smiled. Then, her attention was drawn away from the man to a piece of machinery against the far wall of the diner that was embossed with glowing red and green neon lights. “Hey, look, they have a jukebox! I wonder if it has ‘Rock Around the Clock’ or something by Aretha Franklin?” She made a beeline for the machine and looked down at its list of songs.

“Wow, actual vinyl,” the Doctor said admiringly as he joined her. He scanned the titles. One caught his eye. “Remember this one?”

Clara followed his pointing finger: ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen.

“That’s sort of our song, isn’t it?” the Doctor asked.

Clara chuckled. “I never thought of it that way before. Last time we heard this, it was being sung by a holographic woman on a space-train and you and I were about to break up…” The Doctor gave her an uncertain look. “… Er, I mean...”

“The lyrics really meant a lot to you, though, didn’t they?” 

“What, you think I’m a sex machine ready to reload, or an atom bomb about to _oh-oh-oh_ explode?” Clara said with a twinkle in her eye. “You always say the nicest things to me.”

The Doctor blushed even more than before. “No, I mean… what? No, _shush_ , Supersonic Woman. I mean the first bit: _Don’t stop me now, I’m having such a good time._ You didn’t want to stop. Neither did I.”

“Sure, that too,” Clara teased. She inserted a few coins into the jukebox, pressed the appropriate button and watched the vintage forty-five fall into position. 

Freddie Mercury’s voice came through the speaker and Clara frowned a little. “No disrespect to his memory, but it’s not quite the same,” she said.

“Our version won’t be recorded for another ninety years. But it’s still our song, regardless.” The Doctor extended his hand. “Shall we dance?”

Clara looked around. The diner was packed, but there was a small black-and-white check-tiled dance floor in front of the jukebox. “Here? Now?”

“Why not?”

She considered for a moment. Then she smiled, nodded, and took his hand. 

The moment his fingers closed gently around hers, it was as if they were back on the _Orient Express_ in space. That’s because they _were_ back on the Orient Express in space. The Doctor no longer wore the casual hoodie he had on a moment before; he was back in his tuxedo from that night, his hair freshly trimmed. Clara looked down at herself; she was back in her short-and-sheer Twenties flapper dress, and she didn’t need a mirror to know her hair was back in the Louise Brooks-style bob she’d adopted for what was meant to be their last hurrah together, but ended up being a reaffirmation.

Clara looked around. “What’s going on, Doctor? I thought this place blew up years ago.”

The Doctor put his arm around her waist as he gently guided her into a somewhat awkward waltz that matched the tempo of the song’s opening verses. “Party trick,” he explained. “I can create an ‘oasis’ in my mind. A place to escape to when reality overloads or some diabolical mastermind starts monologuing about how they’re going to destroy the universe or cancel Christmas. But it’s always been a lonely place. I’ve wanted to try and bring y… someone in with me for a long time.”

“You’ve been practising,” Clara said softly as they swayed to the music.

“Well, bringing you in here is taking a bit of effort. You’re a tad bigger than the cat I tried it with last time, though decidedly better company. He just wanted to talk about politics. That’s what cats are usually meowing about, you know. There’s one parked outside the diner that’s been droning on about the economy for the last twenty minutes and getting ticked off that people just want to tell him how cute he is…”

“No, silly. I mean the dancing. Last time we tried this, you weren’t exactly light on your feet. And back when you wore the bow tie… comedy gold.”

“Oh, that. Fred Astaire owed me a favour. Spent six months a few weeks ago taking lessons. Which means I’m ready to do… this!”

The tempo of the song changed and, with a sudden dip and a spin, Clara found herself pulled into something that resembled a foxtrot crossbred with a mambo. She tried to remember all the steps she had learned in dance class and laughed at the awkwardness as the Doctor kept a tight grip of her hand. “We don’t always have hold on to each other, Doctor,” she said.

“Have to, otherwise the connection breaks.” 

Clara didn’t really mind. She loved it when the Doctor held her hand; he had musician’s hands and she loved musician’s hands. And, awkward or not, it was fun, even though she had a feeling the Doctor was madly working out physics formulas for every step they took. 

Queen reached their fastest pace in the song and the Doctor swirled Clara in a spinny hug so quickly, she wasn’t certain he wasn’t wearing roller skates. Then, it was back to the waltz as the song, and the dancing, slowed down to a finale. Clara locked eyes with the Doctor and impulsively moved in on tip-toe to kiss him; he turned his head in reflex and her kiss landed on his cheek instead. She pouted, playfully.

Somewhere beyond the train car, there was applause and cheering. It took Clara a moment to realize it was coming from the diner customers back in the real world. 

“I think we might have put on a bit of a show. Guess this wasn’t all in our heads, after all — still some bugs to work out,” the Doctor said, quietly. “Ready to go back to reality?”

“No. Don’t let go of my hand.” 

Clara turned and gave a smile and a bow in the clapping’s general direction. She dug her nails gently into the Doctor’s palm to make him do the same. 

“This illusion can’t last forever, Clara,” the Doctor said through his smile, sensing Clara’s reluctance to leave the _Orient Express_ behind.

“Why can’t it?” Clara wasn’t smiling anymore.

“Clara...”

“There has to be a way it can, so it’s just you and me. No Missy, no Daleks, no monsters. I won’t age, you won’t age or, worse, regenerate. We’ll always stay the same. This is perfection.”

“No, it’s not. Clara, we’re standing in the middle of a diner in Shoreditch. You know we can’t stay here. We have to break the spell.”

Clara looked angry for a moment, but then took a deep breath. “Yeah, I know. Wishful thinking. Thank you for letting me in. For… being you.” With her free hand, she reached up and cupped the Doctor’s cheek. She then let go with her other hand so the contact was maintained through her palm. Then, she reluctantly, slowly, withdrew, and the diner blinked back into place around them. 

The customers had gone back to their treats, already forgetting the impromptu _Strictly Come Dancing_ audition; the old man was already halfway through his banana split. The Doctor was back in his hoodie; Clara was back in her dark trousers and grey blouse.

“Sure I can’t interest you in another sundae?” the Doctor asked. “My treat.”

“You never carry any money, how can it be your treat? Nah, I’m good.” Clara smiled and looked around at the busy diner with its metal swivel stools and counter, ice cream machine, and red-vinyl booths. “I want to retire and open a place like this someday. Clara’s Diner. I like the sound of that.”

Arm-in-arm, the two exited the diner. The Doctor glared at the black cat meowing loudly just outside the door. “If you feel that strongly about the VAT, then run for office and stop yer whining,” the Doctor hissed as they walked past. The TARDIS was waiting just down the street.

“So, will you sell lemonade?” the Doctor asked Clara.

“Lemonade?” 

“Nectar of the gods. And I mean the stuff made from real lemons. Promise me you’ll have a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade waiting for me in case, you know, I drop by for a visit.”

“I promise. But who says you’ll be dropping by? You’ll be the one flipping the hamburgers,” Clara said, poking the Doctor in the chest with her index finger. “I’ll ask Osgood to recommend a good place to get the required anchor tat. I’m not doing this on my own.”

“Oh, really?”

“And I’m not going to have you tinkering with my ice cream machine, either. Remember when you volunteered to change the batteries in my smoke detector?” 

“You were the one who ran the instruction sheet through the wash. I had to improvise,” the Doctor protested. Clara gave him a quiet glare. “Look, it’s not my fault it gained sentience and nearly took over every household appliance in London.” More glare. “OK, no tinkering. But you’re not planning on retiring anytime soon… are you?”

There was a catch in the Doctor’s voice that got Clara’s attention. “Hey, I’m just dreaming, Doctor. Besides, on my salary I’ll be as old as you before I can retire. You’re stuck with me. For richer, for poorer, right?”

“If we were married.”

“Doctor, I want you to do something for me.” 

“Yes?”

“Picture in your mind a big, round zero. That big, round zero roughly equates to the number of damns I give about whether we’re married.”

The Doctor stopped to look at Clara. “Then what are we?”

“Why does it matter?” 

“I don’t know.” They walked on and he considered a moment. “I know what we are. We’re fnarg.”

“We’re ‘The Fnarg?’ Sounds like we should be invading a planet. I left my planet-invading jacket at home. Can we stop off?” 

“No, just fnarg. Lower-case F; no ‘the.’ There’s no term that really represents what we have… Fnarg is as good a word as any.”

“I have a better one,” Clara said.

“OK, try me... ah, our chariot.” The couple had reached the TARDIS; the Doctor put his key in the lock.

“How about… wait for it… ‘Clara and the Doctor?’” 

“Sounds a little… alphabetical-ordery, don’t you think?” the Doctor replied. “‘Fnarg’ looks better on a T-shirt…”

“‘Clara and the Doctor’ it is then,” Clara said with a _that’s-settled_ smile as the Doctor opened the door. “It’s like that sundae — why try to improve upon perfection?” She placed her hand on his cheek and they stood there for a moment. Just Clara and the Doctor. Together.

The Doctor motioned for her to enter with a gentlemanly flourish of his hand. Clara responded with a ladylike mock curtsy and went inside. The Doctor smiled. Of course, Clara Oswald was always right.

“Perfection,” the Doctor repeated to himself before joining her.

**Author's Note:**

> One thing I couldn't do with the zine publication was include my customary concordance. So here's a quick guide to some of the continuity here:
> 
> The reference to a friend of the Doctor's finding a message at the bottom of a glass saying "You have just been poisoned" is a reference to something that happens to Number Six in The Prisoner episode, "The Girl Who Was Death".
> 
> Clara's interest in "Rock Around the Clock" references a previous story of mine, ["When the Clock Strikes Twelve"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7453570/chapters/16937179); I was working on my final revision to this story when the death of Aretha Franklin was announced, so I included her name in tribute.
> 
> "Don't Stop Me Now" and the Orient Express are, of course, from "Mummy on the Orient Express", with the Queen song taking on added significance in "Hell Bent".
> 
> Readers of my work may notice I use the phrase "diabolical masterminds" a lot. It comes from The Avengers TV series, which so happens was created by the same man who co-created Doctor Who.
> 
> This is very, very obscure, but the Strictly Come Dancing reference was inspired by the fact that in 2015 - before her departure from Doctor Who had been confirmed and well before Victoria was announced - there was a widespread tabloid rumour that Jenna Coleman was going to compete on Strictly Come Dancing or one of the other similar celebrity dance competition shows.
> 
> The word "fnarg" comes from Steven Moffat. Early in his tenure as showrunner there was a rumour that the BBC was going to restart the numbering of the seasons with the coming of Matt Smith. It was nonsense, but in his column for Doctor Who Magazine, Moffat had some fun with it by deciding to refer to what was Series 5 as "Series Fnarg".


End file.
